The Next Best Thing
by Seanchaidh
Summary: An Ezekiel Jones story for StoryWriter2003. Ezekiel finally has his first solo mission, but is he really as alone as he thinks he is?


**The Next Best Thing**

_An Ezekiel Jones story for StoryWriter2003._

Ezekiel Jones hated swamps. It wasn't so much the heat. Heat he could deal with. Heat he was used to. It was the humidity. It was the fact that, wherever he looked, he still wasn't sure if he was looking at land or water. He had twice stepped into what looked like a nice solid grassy tussock, only to find himself ankle or knee deep in a reed bed. And let's not even talk about the leeches!

He swatted at the back of his neck. His hand came away with a red smudge where the feeding mosquito had met it's sudden end. It wasn't the first. It wouldn't be the last. Finding the boat he was now on had taken a half hour trek through the marginally more solid part of the swamp, and the interminable journey through the marginally more liquid part had taken even longer. He sighed as a wooden jetty came into sight and the boat slowed to a stop. From here, at least, it would be easy to tell what he was standing on!

The house was built on stilts, with a wooden stairway that had definitely seen better days and a mouldering canopied walkway all around it. Still, it was more solid than the land around it, and he didn't fancy trying to swing himself up onto the porch from any other point. He climbed carefully, sticking to the strongest part of each board, and reached the door. Once inside, he saw that the house hadn't fared much better. One door in the single storey dwelling was locked. One door that he had to use his thief skills on. Neither door nor lock seemed to show the same signs of age that the rest of the house did. A clear sign that his research had led him to the right spot. Well, his and Jenkins' research. Well, mostly Jenkins. Okay, almost all Jenkins, but he'd come up with the route to and from the house when they'd located it. And he'd worked out what to bring to pick the lock. Magically enhanced locks required specialist equipment, and he was certainly a specialist with access to that equipment.

The door clicked open and the room beyond glowed with its lack of decay. He knew he would have to be fast. He was fast. He could do that. He knew he would have to have an exit strategy. He was a world class thief. He always had an exit strategy. He knew he would have to be clever. He was clever. That would not be a problem. The problem was that he only had one shot at choosing the right box.

He looked at the boxes. Why was there always three? This time there were no outward clues in their design. Each box was identical. He wasn't dealing with dragons here, he was dealing with the emblem of a goddess. Goddesses didn't have to play by the rules. Especially not this one.

The goddess of luck. She would have to be the one to show up in his clippings book for his first solo mission, wouldn't she. Tyche, Greek goddess of fortune and luck. Parentage debatable but generally thought to be the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. Depicted holding many items but by far the most dangerous, apparently, was the ball. It was a simple orb, perfectly spherical, unbreakable, golden in colour but made from some unknown substance that shifted its weight in random directions at the slightest movement, causing untold changes in the luck of the holder. It had been transported to the new world over a hundred years ago, held in place by the gyroscopic interior of a box created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle during his studies and researches into the world of the supernatural.

Ezekiel wondered if the fate of the infamous ship that had brought the box part way across the ocean was a comment by the goddess on what she thought of her parents. Jenkins thought the gyroscopic mechanism had somehow failed, and the ball rolled downward. The severe and sudden downturn in the owner's fortunes had taken the shape of an iceberg. The ball had turned upright again while floating on the waves, in the arms of its next owner, one of the survivors. That individual had brought it the rest of the way to America, and it had disappeared into the depth of a hundred years of history, finally resurfacing again in New Orleans, and had now been tracked the very edge of Louisiana.

He sighed. He was the lucky thief. Who else could look at three identical boxes and choose the right one. He pulled a coin out of his pocket.

"Heads it's the first one, tails it isn't," he said, and tossed the coin.

Tails.

"Heads it's the middle one, tails it's the third one," sighed the thief, tossing the coin again.

Heads.

He put the coin back in his pocket, glanced round to the door and checked his exit, then grabbed the middle box and ran.

The room around him shook as the years reclaimed their territory. Timbers warped and rotted around him and the floor below his feet began to crumble. As he reached the porch there was a mighty crash from behind him. He glanced back as he half ran, half slid down the stairs, and saw daylight through the doorway he had just exited. The house had crumbled into the marshy waters beneath. It was still crumbling. As his feet hit the decking of the jetty, the stairs finally gave way and collapsed into dust and splinters. By the time he reached the boat there was no sign that the house had ever been there, besides the wooden planks of the jetty he was standing on. He climbed into the boat and they pulled away. Once he had settled the box safely in his backpack, he looked back, but now even the jetty had vanished from sight.

XXXX

"Did you open it?" Jenkins called as Ezekiel walked back through the wormhole into the office.

"You said not to," he shrugged, swinging the backpack off his shoulder with a force that made Jenkins wince.

"That doesn't answer my question," said the old man to Ezekiel's receding back.

"No, I did not open the box," he replied, turning in the doorway and bowing to the annex, and now Library, caretaker.

"Did the ball move at all?" Jenkins pressed.

"Not that I noticed, no," sighed the young man. "I was a little distracted by the house disintegrating around my ears, but since I seem to have made it here in one piece, let's just assume that luck was on my side throughout, shall we?"

"I hate assuming things," muttered the old man as the thief disappeared.

XXXX

Ezekiel Jones awoke with a throbbing headache. He blinked against the harsh daylight flooding through his bedroom window. He hadn't drunk that much, last night, surely? He stood up and the room swam. Maybe he had! Stumbling over corners and furniture that seemed to move before his very eyes, he made it to the bathroom in time to lose what remained of last night's celebratory dinner. He groaned. He never got hangovers. Not these days. He'd learned very quickly where his limits were for alcohol. Being blind drunk was bad for business, especially if it left you unable to pick a lock or make a sharp exit the next morning too. And while he might know exactly when he was planning on a job, he never knew when he might have to plan an escape.

He knew he was late when he dragged himself into the office, but he also knew there was not going to be any Colonel Baird there to shout at him. Nor would there be any Jacob Stone there to talk deliberately loudly and clatter everything and anything that came to hand just to make a point. No, the only person there, quietly examining the box he had brought back yesterday, was Jenkins. The old man flipped up the goggles of the headset he was wearing and eyed the thief carefully.

"Are you ill?" Jenkins queried.

"Hungover, I believe," replied Jones. "Can I just sit quietly somewhere. I promise I'll read something."

"How much did you drink last night?" Jenkins frowned and walked over to the younger man, removing his sunglasses and pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Not that much, honest!" Ezekiel protested, wincing away from the light as Jenkins held his eye open to peer inside.

"I believe you," murmured the old man. "Come on, let's get you lying down."

"What?" Ezekiel frowned at Jenkins as he was dragged by the arm from the office and towards the first aid room they had set up long ago. "It's just a hangover! I took some painkillers. I'm drinking plenty of water. I'll be fine!"

"It's not a hangover," said Jenkins peremptorily. "I told you the gyroscopic mechanisms had failed. The ball must have shifted during your escape from the house, or on the way back, and caused this. Look at you: you're covered in insect bites. One of them, hopefully only one, has made you ill. Your pupils are dilated, you have a fever, your skin is pale and clammy and apparently you have all the symptoms of a hangover by which I take it you mean headache, nausea, problems with balance and vision..."

"I get the picture..." Ezekiel interrupted.

"Do you?" Jenkins snapped. "If we're lucky, if the ball only moved slightly, you'll be ill until your body fights off the fever. If we're not..."

"I get the picture," repeated Jones, without his usual flippancy. "I'll lie down and sleep it off."

"You will," nodded Jenkins as they reached the door and he hauled the young man inside, depositing him on the bed. "Shoes off. Make yourself comfortable. You're going to be here for a while."

While Ezekiel followed orders, Jenkins bustled about him in the room, arranging a comfortable chair by his bed. A table with a jug of water and glass arrived, shortly followed by spare blankets and a bucket of iced water.

"You know I'd been meaning to do that challenge..." Ezekiel slurred dreamily. "Hey, did you give me something? My head feels weird."

"You haven't eaten or drunk anything yet!" Jenkins muttered, pushing the boy back down onto the bed and slapping an ice cold flannel on his forehead. "Now stay here and stay down while I call the others!"

Over the next hour, the door to the small room clattered open and closed as one after another of the team returned and took a turn looking in on him with words of comfort or, in one case, amusement. Some of it, Ezekiel caught, the rest became a blur of light and sound punctuated by occasional moments of clarity.

He was vaguely aware of the thermometer in his mouth when he next came round. Perhaps it had been the beep that had woken him. He looked up with heavy eyes at the blonde figure leaning over him. She was grimacing at the reading on the thermometer she had just removed.

"He's burning up," she murmured, her words floating down to him through a haze. "We should get him to a hospital. At proper doctor at least!"

"This fever isn't biological," echoed the words from someone out of his line of sight. "It's at least partly magical. Proper doctors can't deal with that. And we can't risk it getting out of here."

"If he goes on like this, it's going to kill him!"

"If we take him to a hospital we'll have even less of a chance to save him."

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll be fine," slurred Ezekiel, trying to raise a hand to put on Eve's arm and failing miserably.

"It's me, Eve, Ezekiel," said the Guardian, looking down at her charge with worry written plain across her face. "I'm not your mother."

"Only one I ever had," the boy shrugged. "Only family I ever had. Protective mum, genius dad, awesome grandpa, beautiful big sister, annoying big brother. Brother-in-law now, more like. Family. My family."

"Do we know anything about his real family?" Eve asked Jenkins as Ezekiel zoned out. The old man was turned round and flicking through a medical book.

"Nothing," he answered, his voice betraying more emotion than he would like it to. "It's one subject we haven't talked about all that much. I know he grew up in care. That's all."

Eve wrung out another flannel in the ice bucket and replaced the one on Ezekiel's forehead. She sponged ice water onto his face, neck and arms and sat looking down at him in silence. The door closed gently behind her and an arm around her told her that Flynn had joined her at the youngest Librarian's bedside.

"Anything?" Eve asked, camouflaging and sniffle as a deep breath.

"Cassandra thinks she may have something," Flynn said gently. "I left her and Stone working on it. They'll bring it through when they've finished."

"An antidote?" Jenkins murmured with a frown. "We don't even know what he's got."

"A potion," replied Flynn, "although Cassandra seems to think it will work in the same way. We have most of the ingredients and she's sent Stone to get the only one we don't."

"Just as long as she goes nowhere near that box," said Jenkins. "We don't need any more bad luck!"

"Want pizza!" Ezekiel's unconscious form blurted suddenly. "The dragons have the pizza. Evil dude. Pizza."

"Does he do that a lot?" Flynn frowned.

"He called me mom a little while ago," replied Eve with a tight smile. "Called you dad too."

"I wouldn't have been much of a father," the Librarian laughed. "I didn't even know what being a grown up meant until I took this job!"

"I think you might have been better than what he got, even then," said Eve quietly.

"'s a little bit my fault," the recumbent figure muttered. "Chance to be a good guy for once. Don't like hats. Avoid funny hats."

"Santa," murmured Jenkins at Flynn's confused half smile.

"Not calling him Santa," muttered Eve reflexively.

"Cairo museum. Back door links to antiquities floor if I use the scarab I borrowed from there three years ago."

"He has an interesting definition of the term 'borrowed'," sighed Jenkins.

"Louvre, Paris. Back door opens in the gents bathrooms on the first floor."

"Remind me never to set the back door for the Louvre," Eve quipped.

"Pentagon. Back door opens in cleaner's closet on basement level."

"He broke into the Pentagon?" Flynn's eyebrows went up.

"If he ever wakes up, I'll kill him!" Eve laughed.

"Tower of London. Back door opens in disabled toilet."

"What is it with bathrooms!" Eve muttered.

"Tokyo National Museum. Back door opens in archivist's work room."

"I'm sure there's an item in there we're going to have to retrieve at some point," said Jenkins.

"National Palace Museum, China. Back door links to the old servant's quarters."

"That's an international incident waiting to happen!" Eve groaned.

"Guggenheim Museum, Spain. Back door opens under the stairs."

"Jenkins, did you ever consider a lock for that door?" Flynn asked, looking round.

"British Museum, London. Back door opens at the top of the stairs."

"I am now!" Jenkins replied.

"Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg. Back door opens in the cloakroom."

"Really?" Eve's eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. "Is there anywhere he hasn't broken into yet?"

"Uffizi gallery, Florence..."

"If he ever wakes up, Stone's gonna kill him!" Flynn laughed.

"Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam..."

"Never mind kill him, Stone's gonna go with him!" Eve rolled her eyes.

"International and Commercial Bank of China..."

"Tell me he didn't!" Eve groaned.

"Deutsche Bank..."

"Should we be writing this down?" Flynn idly wondered.

"Credit Agricole..."

"Definitely not!" Eve replied.

"Credit Suisse..."

"Well, maybe," she admitted.

"Got it!" Cassandra's voice, loud and cheerful, cut through the delirious ramblings causing them to stop with a snort.

"Are you sure it will work?" Eve asked, turning to face the redhead.

"Merlin's always right," mumbled the incoherent patient.

"Well, that's debatable," muttered Jenkins.

"Here," Cassandra handed Eve the syringe. Within it, the potion glowed a sickly yellow. "I worked out the dosage while Jacob was getting the last ingredient. It's all there. It should start working immediately, but it won't be an instant recovery: his body will still have to do that on its own."

"An antidote for the magic, but not the biology," nodded Jenkins, comprehending.

"I'm beginning to think we should let him go on a bit more and start taping him," said Baird, taking the syringe. "We seem to be getting a full confession here. It might provide useful leverage later on!"

"You wouldn't do that, though, would you Colonel?" Cassandra smiled.

Eve smiled back. "No, I wouldn't." She turned and injected the contents of the syringe into Ezekiel's arm. "Blackmail is not my style. I just stick with physical violence when threatening Jones, it's much more effective!"

The ragged breathing gradually slowed and deepened. The temperature went down. The colour came back to his cheeks.

"He'll be okay now," whispered Flynn into Eve's ear. Neither of them had moved from the edge of the bed. Jenkins sat in the chair, watching quietly. Stone and Cassandra hovered in the doorway.

"I know," Eve whispered back. "But I still need to be here when he wakes up."

"You're not actually his mother, you know," Flynn told her.

"I know," Eve repeated, her voice still shaking, but from weariness more than worry. "But I'm the next best thing. We all are. And we're all he's got."


End file.
